Lady Emily's Exotic Journey

by Lillian Marek

  The door opened immediately, as if she had been standing right beside it. Perhaps she had. She had her hat on, a wide-brimmed straw, and gloves, as if she was about to go out. Or perhaps she had just come in.

  His mind was dithering, and he hadn’t even opened his mouth yet. “Emily.” He managed to get that far but stood there staring at her. He wasn’t sure precisely why. She looked no different than usual, but her usual was so precisely what he wanted. Everything he wanted. “Emily,” he repeated, “I may enter?”

  She stepped back to let him in, an uncertain expression on her face. It was a tiny little cabin, with a bunk and room for nothing more than her trunk. There was a small window, but it was too crusted with salt for anything outside to be visible. He gestured for her to sit down on the bed, and she did so, still looking uncertain. That uncertainty was increasing his nervousness.

  It was time. He took a deep breath and went down on one knee. “Lady Emily, you must know by now that I love you deeply and completely, and wish above all to be with you, to have you always beside me. Will you marry me and accept this ring as a pledge of my devotion?”

  She looked at him in confusion. Ah, she was adorable when she was confused, but please God, not uncertain. She must not be uncertain. Would she not take the ring?

  “But you already…” She took a deep breath and smiled a glorious smile. “You didn’t come aboard with us. I was afraid that you might have changed your mind, that you had decided to simply forget about your grandfather, that the call of Samarkand was too strong.”

  “Why would you think such a thing?” He felt half-relieved, half-offended that she should doubt him. “When you opened the door, you looked uncertain. I thought perhaps you were annoyed that I had not fulfilled all the formalities.”

  “And so the proposal on bended knee?”

  She was smiling at him. Happiness bubbled up to escape in laughter. “All honor is due to my lady.”

  She looked down at the ring he held out to her, seeing it fully, and gasped. “It is incredible.”

  “That is why I was always busy,” he said, slipping it on her finger. “For you I wanted the Roxelana ring, an emerald surrounded by diamonds. The design is that of the ring the famed Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent made for his beloved wife. I sent messages to the jeweler from Mosul, but it took time for him to find the right stones and then to make it, and I was afraid it would not be ready before we sailed. I fear I have been driving him mad, hanging over his shoulder.”

  “It is so beautiful,” she said softly, holding her hand out to admire it. Then she swung around to look at him in concern. “But your troubles, all the money your grandfather stole—you cannot afford such a ring.”

  He closed his hand over hers and rested his forehead on hers. “Yes I can. I wanted this ring for you. There will be other jewels in the future, I promise you, though you may have to wait for them. But this ring—it will remind you—it will remind us—of our adventures here. When the snows pile up at Varennes and the wind blows against the windows, when you have to face my relatives at Boulaye, you will touch this ring and it will keep you warm.”

  Twenty-eight

  James Oliphant, David’s father, had the tall, rangy build and chiseled features of a Scot, traits his son had inherited. He also had the sandy hair and fair skin of a Scot, skin that was reddened by the inescapable glare of the Egyptian sun. From his mother, Anmar, David had inherited his coloring—olive complexion, dark hair and eyes. While both his parents were good-looking individuals, Emily decided, neither one could approach David’s extraordinary handsomeness.

  Any consideration of their appearances vanished in the warmth of their welcome. The Oliphants were clearly delighted that their son had found a bride and were disposed to agree with him in viewing her as the epitome of all goodness and beauty. That in turn made the Tremaines, who were all protective of Julia, disposed to think highly of the Oliphants’ intelligence and good nature.

  Mr. Oliphant and his wife, whom he called Annie, insisted that the entire party stay at their home, a large villa on the banks of the Nile. Like most of the buildings they had seen in this part of the world, the exterior was plain. This one had thick white walls and shuttered windows. Inside, it was an oasis of luxury, combining the cushioned softness of European chairs with the rich textures of Oriental fabrics and the brilliant colors of the tiles.

  The villa was set in a large garden reaching down to the river. Trees shaded the buildings and a canal flowed through the garden between banks of turquoise tiles. Unfamiliar blossoms in brilliant hues filled the beds lining the pathways. A high wall surrounding the garden shut out the shouts and clamor of the city, but it was so disguised by vines and shrubs that it seemed as if the garden was endless, a world in itself.

  “The ancient Persians called a garden like this a paradise,” said Lucien, looking about him, “and it is not difficult to agree. Shall we make a walled garden at Varennes, with a canal like this running through it?”

  Emily’s smile mirrored his. “And so we will live in paradise?”

  “Of course.”

  They began to lean toward each other, but Lady Penworth called before they could explore the possibilities of paradise. Emily scowled with frustration but dutifully followed her mother into the guest quarters. Once inside, her sigh turned to one of sheer pleasure, echoing her mother’s. It was not that the house was beautiful. It was, in the Arabic way of bright colors, intricate designs, and open space. But what enchanted them was that the rooms were cool.

  When they had first arrived in Constantinople, the bright sunlight had delighted Emily, and after the bitter cold they had encountered in the mountains, the warmth of Mosul was welcome. However, as the weeks progressed, the warmth had turned to heat. Now, in the middle of May, Emily knew why travelers called the sun merciless, and she understood why the inhabitants of the region built their houses with thick walls and small windows to keep it out.

  “I do not think I will ever again complain about the cold drafts at Penworth Castle,” said Lady Penworth. “A roaring fire can banish the chill, but with the heat, one can do nothing but cower in the shade and wait for the sun to set. And it is still early in the year. How can people bear to live here?”

  “Lucien says that one gets used to it,” said Emily.

  “Lucien says?” Lady Penworth raised her brows. “How very wifely that sounds.”

  Emily felt herself blush.

  “I hope you don’t plan to dwindle into one of those fools who can only parrot their husbands’ words and have no thoughts of their own,” her mother continued.

  At that Emily laughed.

  After a moment’s thought, Lady Penworth laughed as well. “No, I don’t imagine you will.”

  As the days passed, Emily found that even had she wished to parrot Lucien’s words, she would not have been able to do so because she heard very few of them. The gentlemen appeared only at dinner and not always then. It was a bit frustrating. By the third day, even Mama was beginning to look irritated.

  Immediately after dinner, the gentlemen had withdrawn to Mr. Oliphant’s office once again. That left the ladies only themselves to talk to as they sat in the garden beside the canal.

  Lady Penworth finally gave in to her curiosity. “What on earth are they up to?”

  Mrs. Oliphant made a helpless gesture with her hand. “My husband says it will be a surprise. All I know is that it is some scheme of M. Chambertin’s.”

  “Lucien?” Lady Penworth looked sharply at her daughter, who lifted her shoulders and shook her head, denying any notion about what was going on. “He hasn’t decided to plan a trip to the North Pole or some such, has he?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Oliphant, frowning slightly. “I do not think it has anything to do with travel. I think it is business of some sort. Trade, perhaps.”

  Trade? How odd. Emily was certain that her father had been quite dismissive of the potential for trade with Mesopotamia.

  The ladies looked at each
other, shrugged, and turned to a discussion of wedding plans. It was turning into quite a grand celebration, with an ever increasing number of guests. Since wintering in Egypt had become quite fashionable, there was still a crowd of visitors to Shepheard’s Hotel, and many of them were friends or acquaintances of the Penworths or of the Doncasters. Then there were the English residents and the diplomatic corps in Cairo and Alexandria.

  Mrs. Oliphant was delighted at the number of people who would be attending her son’s wedding. “They would not have come had you not been here,” she told Lady Penworth, “and had the bride not been the sister of the Earl of Doncaster.”

  “The more fools they.” Lady Penworth dismissed them with a toss of her head. “This menu you have designed provides a fascinating mixture of European and Arabic dishes. Don’t you agree, Julia?” Julia opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Lady Penworth had turned back to Mrs. Oliphant. “You are providing your guests with just enough of the exotic to make them remember this wedding, and enough of the familiar to make them comfortable. Brilliant.” Emily and Julia looked at each other, laughed softly, and let the older women go over their plans again and again.

  The next day, the gentlemen returned to the house so early that the ladies had to be roused from their afternoon naps. Once they were properly laced up and groomed, they arrived in the salon to find the men in a smugly satisfied mood.

  “It was all M. de Chambertin’s idea,” said Mr. Oliphant.

  “Your betrothed is a very clever young man,” Lord Penworth told his daughter, who smiled prettily and did not say that she was quite aware of that. Nor did she say that she had not thought that the cleverness he had shown her was something of which her father would approve. She did, however, turn to Lucien with a question in her eyes.

  Lucien gave that French shrug. “It is a bit uncomfortable, for we are taking advantage of the troubles of others, but the troubles are there whatever we do. That we cannot change.”

  Lady Penworth had little patience with such indirection. “Precisely what are you talking about?”

  “You know they have begun fighting in America,” said her husband. When they all nodded, he continued, “It seems likely that this is turning into a civil war that will not be over quickly. The southern states will not give up their slaves willingly. That means that the supply of cotton to the English and French mills will be disrupted.”

  “Lucien noticed the boats carrying cotton on the Nile,” said David, clapping Lucien on the back. “He investigated and realized that Egyptian cotton could replace the American cotton.”

  “It is of excellent quality,” said his father, “far better than Indian cotton. Indeed, it is of better quality than the American cotton.”

  “In short,” said Lord Penworth, “we have formed a company to import Egyptian cotton to France and England. Mr. Oliphant can handle things at the Egyptian end, Lucien knows the people in France, and David and I can take care of things in England.”

  “Goodness,” said Lady Penworth. “Lucien, it appears that you have hidden depths.”

  He lifted his chin defensively. “I realize that it is a war that makes me think of this, but to encourage cotton here in Egypt is not a bad thing. Indeed, the quality of the cotton here seems to be so high that there should always be a market for it, especially for the finer goods.”

  “That is brilliant of you.” Emily stepped to his side and took his arm.

  Lady Penworth smiled at them. “I agree completely. I meant no insult to you, Lucien. On the contrary. I had feared that you might be like your grandfather, content to live off the labor of others with no thought beyond your own convenience and well-being.”

  “That world is gone,” he said, shaking his head dismissively. “France has no need of aristocrats who do nothing but preen themselves at court while the peasants toil in the fields. If we are to survive, we must see to the improvement of the peasants and lead them into the modern world.”

  “You are an idealist, M. de Chambertin?” asked Mrs. Oliphant.

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Nothing so noble. Merely a pragmatist. If the family of the Comte de la Boulaye—my family—is to flourish, things cannot stay the same. They must change, and it is better to choose the way to change than to be swept aside by change.”

  Mr. Oliphant rubbed his hands. “Well, this particular change seems likely to benefit us all. I must say I am grateful that my son brought you here.”

  Later that evening Emily and Lucien managed to step aside for a brief embrace in a dark corner of the garden—all too brief.

  “I had no idea you were so clever in business,” said Emily, holding tightly to his arm as they walked toward the others.

  “You do not mind?”

  “Why ever should I mind?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes the English, they seem to think that one is not a gentleman if he concerns himself with matters of business.”

  “I cannot believe Papa suggested such a thing.”

  “No.” A smile tugged at his lips. “I believe that he was relieved to think I had found a way to pay your bills from Mr. Worth.”

  Laughter gurgled up in her. “And I am relieved as well. Feel free to concoct other schemes if you like.”

  He pulled her to him for another quick kiss. At least it had started as a quick kiss, but somehow it lengthened. He finally pulled away and rested his forehead on hers. “The business schemes, as you call them, at least serve as a distraction. Otherwise I think only of you and fear I will go mad with longing.”

  *

  The day of the wedding dawned bright and sunny, and not quite as hot as the preceding few days had been. Not that the bride and groom would have noticed, any more than their families did. A dozen Cairo seamstresses had created a magical dress from the silk Lady Penworth had brought from Baghdad. An overskirt of sheer white silk shot through with threads of gold was looped over a creamy underskirt. Petals of silk formed the sleeves and trimmed the hem. The bride’s veil was of a silk so transparent as to be almost invisible save for the golden flowers embroidered along the edge.

  It was a gown in the height of Parisian fashion with just enough of the exotic to turn Julia into some magical, otherworldly creature. Beside her, David glowed with an equally otherworldly happiness as they greeted all the guests and gracefully accepted their good wishes.

  Leaning over to speak softly to Lady Penworth, Mrs. Oliphant said, “I cannot remember when I last saw David so relaxed, so assured. I bless the day you brought Julia to my son.”

  Lady Penworth, watching the young couple, said, “And I have never seen Julia so alive, so vivid. Your son has torn down the wall she built around herself. It is as if together they are more themselves than they had ever dared to be before.”

  They clasped hands and shared smiles—and brought out handkerchiefs to blot the happy tears.

  Twenty-nine

  Over the past five years, Lucien had been through many dangers. He had survived shipwreck, desert sandstorms, brawls in taverns too disreputable to have a name, attacks by brigands—all manner of perils. Never had he been afraid. Not until he met Emily, and even then his fear had been for her.

  Now, as the carriages taking them from Avignon neared the Marbot estate, he felt…not fear. Not really. But worry. Uncertainty. This was not an accustomed sensation for him.

  What if Emily did not like his family? They were a boisterous crowd, his Marbot cousins. She was not stiff-necked, he knew, but they might put her off.

  And her parents, how would they react? The Marbot clan was not at all elegant, as he remembered them. Would Lord and Lady Penworth find them too insignificant for an alliance with their family?

  The chateau. He had loved the chateau from the first time he saw it. It had been warm and welcoming, a refuge from the chill perfection of La Boulaye. But while it was a large building, it rambled about in no special order and was far from fashionable.

  If they scorned his family, would they also scorn
him? He was not worried about the comte, not his father’s family—the Tremaines were welcome to scorn them. He did himself. But he had great affection for his Marbot family, not just gratitude for the assistance they had given him. He knew too that Emily loved her family. What would happen if the two families disliked each other? It would not be a disaster, perhaps, but it would not be comfortable. And so he worried.

  He sat across from Emily in the carriage with her parents. She was nervous herself. This he knew because she held herself very still, the way a rabbit remains motionless when the hawk is hunting. Even her hair seemed confined, all of it sitting smoothly under the foolish little straw hat perched on the front of her head. A rosy plume curled around and seemed likely to tickle her cheek if a breeze caught it, but there was no breeze in the closed carriage.

  She was sitting half-turned so that she could look out the window, and he knew the moment she first saw the chateau. Her eyes widened and she drew in a sharp breath before asking, “Is that it?”

  He turned to look out, just to make sure nothing had changed, and nodded. “Yes, Château Marbot.”

  “Oh,” she breathed out, tossing him a look of utter delight before she returned to examining the château. “It’s lovely. Enchanting.”

  The worry eased slightly. The château was hidden from view by some woodland for a few minutes, then they turned into the gates, and the long straight drive led up to the entrance. Large old trees shaded the house from the afternoon sun, making a dappled pattern on the cream stone and the dark red tiles of the roof. Pale blue shutters flanked the long windows, and pots with small lemon trees stood sentry at the double doors of the entrance.